Charybdis
by slam a revolving door
Summary: [Part IV of IV] 'The winds awake and blow the surface of the warm, baked earth, and she can feel the ground emit a tiny audible sigh of relief. She feels that way herself sometimes, all the time, never, as she works late into the night.'
1. Winter

**Disclaimer:** I do not own House.

**Winter**

"_I'll be counting out my demons,  
__Hoping everything's not lost."_

_-_ '_Everything's Not Lost', Coldplay_

Winter arrives without any preamble or delay and out comes the thick coat. It is a heavy tan affair that smells vaguely of mothballs and something from a far-off distant memory that tugs at her subconscious. She isn't sure if she wants to remember, but she isn't sure if she wants to forget either. So she just wears it, and the scent of the past lingers on her. The winds are bitingly cold and the air is painfully fresh, and somehow she knows that if she closes her eyes long enough and let her mind wander, everything will come apart again. So because the coat is out and it hangs on the bedroom door silently, she cannot sleep. She cannot allow herself to drift further away, because she knows she's the only one who can stop her from floating out to sea. Where have the tether and the rope gone? It has snapped in the cold and the frost, and she can see the ends trailing limply in the water. But somehow, inexplicably, it gives her some satisfaction to know that when she has the strength and the will enough, she will be able to make her way over and clutch it.

But for now she is willing to linger in the faint scent of memories and the dull haze of insomnia. She is willing to clutch the coat to her at night and she is willing to soak its sleeve with salty tears. She doesn't look at herself in the mirror in the mornings, because she knows that despite the movies, books and poems, puffy red-eyed women aren't attractive.

And despite the cold weather, everything is still the same when she walks into the office in the morning. Nobody looks at her differently, or smiles sympathetically anymore than they used to. No one stops to enquire why it is that her eyes are heavier than usual, or even notices it at all. Or if they do, they don't comment. And it's strange, because she feels different. But what is different? She never feels the same, after all. And when she steps outside the building at looks at the gently snowing sky, she has to fight to resist the urge to spread her arms wide and spin. She has to resist the urge to bend down and scoop up handful of snow and throw it into the air and watch it fall down. She has to resist the urge to turn and speak to those who aren't there anymore. Yes, she has to resist.

Sometimes when she's in the shower or in her living room watching TV, she thinks she hears a phone ringing in the background, amidst all that noise. But when she turns the tap off, or flicks the volume down, it's gone. But it lingers in her mind, and she is scared. She is scared so often now, and heck it's cold and she's cold and she wants it to stop. She wants everything to stop … wants everything to slow down. Stop the world; she wants to get off!

_Impossible, implausible, improbable. _

And now she sits on the corner of her bed, and yes, the coat is in the corner as usual. Every so often, her eyes flick up to it as she scans through the pages of the journal, and she has to shake her head to get the water out of her brain, because she has to have something in her brain for her eyes to keep focusing on the one object. Or perhaps something on her mind, but of course she won't think about that, because that actually requires thought, and it's thought that she's not prepared to give. And when sleep comes – because it always does, no matter how long it takes – she drifts in and out of consciousness, and no, she does not toss and turn or clutch her pillow, because it doesn't happen like that in reality. Instead, she shifts in her bed and at four, gets up to get a drink and do some research because there's really no point in staying in bed if she's not getting any rest.

She can't focus on the computer screen, and acting on an impulse – which is a big thing for her, because she doesn't act on impulses, often, that is – she switches it off and grabs her car keys. She's out of the door before the door is open – almost. Not really.

Her mind is a Charybdis of half-thoughts and ideas, except it's not ships it swallows: it's her.

The ground is icy, and she half skids, half slides towards her car. Pausing to wipe the frost from the windscreen, she breathes in deeply, relishing the cold, fresh air. She brushes her hair back with a quick sweep of her hand and gets in the car and drives away before she can remember the piles of journal articles waiting for her back home.

She finds herself at an outdoor ice skating rink almost without knowing she got there, if the jangling of her car keys hadn't been an indication of her mode of transport. Taking a look around, she sees the place is deserted, save for one lone skater at the end of the rink, trying to execute a neat salchow, but landing clumsily. She could tell her that she is rushing it and that her arms are wildly flinging everywhere, but for now she'll just observe, because she doesn't think she trusts her voice enough to talk. And besides, it's been such a long time since she last got on ice, let alone in skates that …

She just observes.

The skater is frustrated now, and gives up, opting to do spins instead, which she is obviously much better at – which is funny, because she herself had always been better at jumps, because the feeling of flying, even for a minute, was always so alluring. Spins were more like losing control, and she never wanted to lose control. The skater at the other end of the rink does a cross spin. Three steps to cross spins, she remembers. Step one: leg out; step two: leg up; step three: leg down. Simple enough theory – harder in practice. She can recall the first time she tried – disastrous. The corners of her mouth twitch and turn up in a little smile that is five percent humour and fifty percent irony. The remaining percentage is lost somewhere in the midst of the snow and the ice.

She turns away. Behind her, the skater stumbles and falls.

She doesn't see it. Her entire life she's been turning away from the bad things just in time. There had only been one instance where she had looked back, and that had hurt her more than she could have imagined. And perhaps it was then she realised that she'd been living in a bubble. And that bubble had popped.

She doesn't look back anymore.


	2. Spring

**Disclaimer: **See previous chapter.

**A/N: **This is for **Buffyfreak **who made my day (week) by reviewing so many of my other oneshots - thank you so much! And thank you to **ColorofAngels, Tigger101, drugged-on-chocolate **and **Someday Oneday** for reviewing as well. -sends love and chocolate cake out-

Here be the next parteth:

**Spring**

"_Oh, gravity is working against me,_

_And gravity wants to bring me down."_

_- 'Gravity', John Mayer_

The coat has been put away and instead, she wears light jackets, because she can still taste the faint tang of winter in the air. And she longs for what she can never have, because really, she doesn't know what she wants. Convenient, isn't it? The word 'irony' floats dimly across her mind, and she cringes, because that word brings back memories of her high-school days, and she doesn't want to remember those, because it's spring, and spring is supposed to be about new beginnings, isn't it? But really, she reasons, the idea of a fresh beginning was stupid anyway. The years go round and round in a continuous circle – there _is _no beginning and no end.

Everybody seems somewhat happier though, and she's secretly glad for it, because it's always so much less taxing being around 'somewhat happy' people than being around 'somewhat miserable' people, because there are no 'somewhat's' with being miserable. Or at least there shouldn't be.

The promising little buds that have lurked around for so long have morphed into little withered flowers that leave the air laden with pollen and make her sneeze. The word 'anticlimax' lingers in the air, mixed with the pollen and disappointment. Birds chirp and twitter, busy building nests and it makes her feel warm and fuzzy inside. That feeling of security from her childhood emerges yet again. Except that, like so many other things that she builds her utopian naiveté upon, too shatters, when she sees a group of boys tearing down a nest and pilfering the eggs from it. She yells and scares them off, of course, but secretly she is horrified, because she thought things like that only ever happened in storybooks, and the culprits were always punished.

It doesn't quite work out like that in real life, she reflects as the boys run down the road and disappear around the corner.

She goes back inside.

She turns on her computer and surfs the 'Net because of some visceral decision that she feels like acting upon. She spends two hours looking up pictures and information about her favourite television program, and then gets depressed because someone swears that they're going to kill her favourite character. Then her screen goes blank, and she realises that she's somehow downloaded a virus along with the five pictures that she's saved on her computer.

She blames her virus scanner and herself for not using the Internet more, because it's obvious that she should have spent more time with it, helping it to build up some sort of immunity to the Internet. Realising how stupid she's being, she leaves the computer on the table. She'll call the computer guy later when she's feeling less indifferent.

Acting on another impulse – really, you'd think she'd have learnt her lesson about impulses – she picks up the phone and dials a number. The phone rings into the empty space between his telephone and hers, and it sounds – feels? – so loud that she's sure the neighbours can hear it.

"Hello?" his voice sounds through the line suddenly, and she's not prepared for it, because she was positive he wouldn't answer – he never answers, why is he answering now?

She hangs up and hopes that he doesn't have caller ID.

Actually, she's pretty sure he does, but he doesn't call back. She's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed, so she settles for indifferent. Again. Predictability is a pattern, and a pattern denotes routine. And of course it's all complacency, but there's a certain stability in complacency, isn't there?

The computer technician comes around, and he wastes about ten minutes telling her in the most tactile manner possible that her computer has a virus. She shakes off his hands, and resists the urge to tell him that if she hadn't known that, why would she have called him? Leaving him to it, she dozes fitfully in her chair on the balcony with a journal in front of her and a mug of juice next to her. The computer man clearing his throat awakens her, and she looks up to see him staring at her. She digs into her pocket to fish out her wallet and something falls out. Something always has to fall out.

"You dropped this," the man says, and she smiles distantly, plucking the faded photograph out of his hand with a faint 'thank you' and exchanges it for his pay. She ushers him out the door and leaves the photograph on the top of the bookcase next to the shoe rack. Some memories just don't need to be revisited.

And again, everything is still the same at work – still the same tension-filled atmosphere – and whosoever said that change was the permanent state of life was lying or experiencing severe delusions, because nothing changes. But it should, and maybe it would if she'd let it. But of course she isn't the only one standing in the way of change, because she can tell that they like things the way they are – objects in motion stay in motion – that's Newton's second Law isn't it? Isn't it? And sometimes that's a wonderful, fantastic thing, and sometimes it just reeks of stagnancy and motionless, and if their life were a bowl of water, mosquitoes would be breeding in it.

She drives down to the ice skating rink again, and isn't surprised to see a lone figure standing on the edge of the melting water, skates slung around her neck. As she stands on the edge of the rink, hands stuck deep in the pockets of her jeans, the skater standing there looks up and gives a reluctant half-wave, acknowledging the tenacity that ties the two of them together. And the weakness.

She's close enough to see the wry grin on the skater's face, and the pale scar down one side of her cheek that reminds her of Harry Potter, except that Harry always annoyed her, and she doesn't really want this girl to annoy her. The girl walks over, as though drawn by the thin spider-lines that weave its intricate pattern in circles around the two of them, and she smiles.

"Ice melts in spring," she says distantly to the skater, who gazes at her with a calmness that she envies.

"There's always the indoor rink," the skater replies, and she smiles back and it's the start of something – she's not sure what, she never is. But Beth isn't like that, in fact, she's her antithesis, and it overwhelms her that someone so young can have so much life, so much determination.

She goes home feeling a little less empty.

* * *

**A/N: **See the pretty purply blue button? It calls to you ... it calls!!


	3. Summer

**Disclaimer: **See Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is for **Someday Oneday **for being my first reviewer. Also, thank you to **drugged-on-chocolate, sweetgreuy, CK, BuffyFreak **and **Tigger101** for reviewing the previous chapter.

**Summer**

"_I dream of rain  
__I dream of gardens in the desert sand.  
__I wake in vain,  
__I dream of love as time runs through my hand."_

_- 'Desert Rose', Sting_

When summer finally rolls around, she's relieved, because the wildly fluctuating temperatures of the spring days had been grating on her nerves and everyone else's tempers. She hides herself away in the lab; running unnecessary tests on patients who she's not sure exist anymore. It comforts her that everybody leaves something behind – something for someone else to dissect; something for someone else to remember. Will she be remembered?

House comes looking for her in the end, and it's yet another one of those silences that define each of them individually and as a whole. Except they're not two parts of a whole, and the dichotomy that exists between them is so great that nothing seems to be able to put them together. Perhaps it's just not possible – the amelioration of their two souls isn't as simple as gluing things together, because pieces shatter and are lost. Forever? Who knows? Neither of them want to break this routine, and so neither of them will. Instead, they wait for a convenient third party to come in and break up the fragile bubble that they've trapped themselves in, and that neither of them want to escape.

When she gets home, she has to turn all the photographs in their shiny wooden frames face down, so she doesn't have to see the faces of people she loves – people who love her – staring at her. They've all made something of their lives, and perhaps to them, she's made the most of hers. But if this is the zenith of her life, then it's a pretty short mountain, and she doesn't want to think of it like that, because she needs to know that there are places to push on towards – pit stops where she can rest. Rest her weary head.

She watches television late into the night, and she knows that the rest of the team think that the black rings under her eyes are due to working late, or thinking late, or something. But no, instead, she relinquishes her thoughts to the mindless power of the soaps that line the program guide, and she pays for it. She desperately wants to blame someone, blame him, but even as she lies back on her sofa, her mind filled with a comfortable nothingness, she knows that everything can be traced back to her, everything is her fault, she is the alternate forty-two. It's narcissism, really, but there's nothing she can do about it, except plot to rule the universe, which takes up more time than she's prepared to give. She really doesn't know what she's prepared to give anymore – no more, perhaps, than she's prepared to take. Zero is such a comforting, non-committal number, isn't it?

For some odd, inexplicable reason as the summer rolls by, she finds herself with more free time on her hands than she's ever had before, and she's not exactly sure how she got it, or what she's going to do with it. Nothing, most probably, or something that feels uncommonly like nothing. Her friends call her with invites to go to the beach, but she doesn't take up the offer. Somehow she feels like she's outgrown the sun and the waves, the sea and the sand, and does that mean she's outgrown fun as well? Maybe. One friend asks her to go to a movie instead, and she shrugs and agrees, even though she knows she'll spend at least half the time analysing the credibility and realism behind the plot, and the motives that the characters have for doing things. She's really not used to having breaks, though her friends seem to think the world of them, and she wishes everything could go back to normal – just the way things were.

Were, are, will be.

They go to the movies together and watch the latest chick flick. Instead of it making her feel warm and fuzzy inside, or hopeful and idealistic like her friend, but instead it makes her feel desperately frustrated, because life isn't like that, and making people think that it is gives them false hope for the fate of the universe. Or just give them false hope, full stop. Her friend gets annoyed with her at first for kicking the seat in front of them, but then sympathetic when the girl's father dies. Of course, they don't focus on the girl's mother, but on the way the girl angsts before finding her One True Love. She can't wait until they step out of the darkened movie theatre into the brilliant burning of reality.

On the weekend, she goes to the indoor skating rink, like Beth told her to, and she watches the figure skaters practice. Beth is one of them, spinning madly on the surface, before going into a backward crossover and finishing her routine. Her coach nods at her, and waves her off. Beth remains on the ice, and she can see that she's attempting the salchow again and again and again …

"Put your arms in," she calls out to Beth before she can stop herself. Her voice comes out hoarse and worn – this is why she doesn't like talking, isn't it? Beth looks up and smiles.

"Come skate with me," Beth says back, and she hesitates for a moment before she nods, walking briskly over to the skate rental counter.

The first step on the ice is slippery and she feels like she's relinquished control for the first time in so long. Clutching the side, she makes her slow, painful way over to Beth, who takes her hand, forcing her to leave the railing.

"Don't pretend to be so helpless," Beth jibes at her, poking her shoulder playfully. She looks at Beth, and somehow she feels like she's seen her before or maybe just the look in her eyes that's so familiar. Nodding slowly, she lets go of Beth's hand and makes her way around the ice, warming up, doing bunny hops, saloms, crossovers, and somehow despite the clichés, she feels like she's finally come home.

She teaches Beth how to do salchows and when Beth finally manages it, the look in her eyes is so precious and priceless, and she knows that she'll catch it and put in a box under her bed so she can keep the memory of it forever. When she has to go, Beth presses her hand and demands her telephone number and she nods and smiles. They exchange numbers before she leaves, and despite the cold in the rink, she finally feels warm again.

* * *

-sings- Look down!!! Not at the floor, honestly! Thiiis ... waaay ...

I  
I  
I  
I  
I  
I  
V

Now click it!!! No, not the arrow. Click the button the arrow (I know it's a bad arrow, hush up.) is pointing to!!!!


	4. Autumn

**Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1  
**A/N:** This is dedicated to **Tigger101** who criticises, supports and mocks in one go. Thanks Tigger. Also, something Tigger raised the last time - do you expect this to GO somewhere? Because it does, but now I'm not too sure if it goes where you think it should go? Anyway, this is the last _planned_ part, but if a lot of you aren't satisfied with the way I've resolved it, _please_ drop me a line, and I'll try to work something out? Oh, and EXAMS ARE OVER!!! Sorry it took so long to bring this chapter out.

**Autumn**

"_When darkness turns to light,_

_It ends tonight,_

_It ends tonight."_

-_ 'It Ends Tonight'_, _All American Rejects_

The winds awake and blow the surface of the warm, baked earth, and she can feel the ground emit a tiny audible sigh of relief. She feels that way herself sometimes, all the time, never, as she works late into the night, trying to feverishly ensure that the patient doesn't die on them. Sometimes the others are there, sometimes they're not, but it doesn't really matter, because to them it's just another case.

Shouldn't it just be another case?

There is nothing overly special about this patient, nothing overly tragic or dramatic – she's just another teenager trying to find her place in the world – a world that is changing without her. Her parents come into visit her daily after work, and her sister comes in after school and they're a perfect, little family- a perfect family that she never had. They just sit there patiently, watching her watch them, and it's so familiar, except so much more unnatural when the patient's fifteen.

"She's always liked that," the sister tells her one day when she comes in to draw some more blood. This is the longest a patient's lived without them forming a diagnosis, and if she admits it to herself, they're no closer to finding a solution to this puzzle.

"Liked what?" she asks, because it was the type of comment that meant that she wanted an answer.

"Watching human nature," the sister replies quietly. And the comment reminds her so much of him, that she has to blink and hurry to make her escape, trying desperately to ignore the blank helplessness that lines the room. As she walks briskly down to the lab, she glances in at him in his glass-walled office, bouncing a tennis ball idly, a look of intense frustration on his face.

She walks on quickly.

"Jessie's smart," one of the patient's teachers informs her when she bumps into her in the hospital cafeteria. "She should be out there changing the world, not lying here wasting away." She silently agrees, but murmurs platitudes instead. What can she say? She's seen this so many times before.

Sometimes she hates her job.

Late at night, when Jessie's coded blue for the third time that evening, she wonders why the girl hasn't died yet. Has she got some hold on life, some inner determination that makes her refuse to let go? Does she feel that she could give so much more back to the world? Drowning in her despair, she takes out the image of Beth's smile from her memory, and clings to it, waiting for the light to come. House comes into the lab, and they look at each other, lost in an eternity and she knows he doesn't understand. She doesn't understand either. He sits down beside her and they work silently, waiting the night out. Somewhere during the night, his hand brushes hers and House half-smiles.

She doesn't smile, but that's alright, because he knows she wants to. Wants to, but can't.

When morning finally breaks, she's in Jessie's room again, and he's right behind her for the first time, ready to break into his little diatribe about not lying to them anymore. Jessie opens her eyes, and stares at them both for a moment, before smiling softly.

"It's the two of you, isn't it?" Jessie says, with the bluntness of a girl who knows she's dying.

"Not very coherent, are you?" House remarks dryly, ignoring the implication. "Must be the whole tube down your throat thing." She glares at him, resenting – not for the first time – his insensitivity.

"Oh …" Jessie breathes, and a shutter falls behind her eyes. "Are my parents here?"

She shakes her head and House shrugs, plonking himself down in the chair that her father had once occupied. "They must have gone back to work – having you at the centre of their universe must get tiring."

Again, she lets out an exasperated breath of air, and the sound hangs in the air, the most fragile thing in the room. Jessie glances at her, the smile rapidly disappearing from her face.

"Do you know what's wrong with me?" she asks urgently. Desperation colours her voice – desperation and frustration, two emotions all of them understand perfectly well.

"Yeah, we're just waiting until you nearly die before we administer treatment. It's a test to see how long you last," House snaps, and she looks at her hands, ready for the tears that will come. But they don't, and instead Jessie shrugs, almost carelessly. He looks at her, and frowns. "In fact, you've lasted longer than expected. Why?"

She knows, instinctively that he's searching for a clue – a clue to her condition, and she looks expectantly at their patient.

"A secret …" the girl says quietly, her eyes fluttering shut, as though about to sleep. But of course he isn't going to let it go, and instead of leaving her be, he bangs the tray at the end of her bed loudly with his cane, and Jessie jerks awake.

"What secret?" House asks harshly, leaning forward. She inhales sharply, holding her breath, as though afraid that he'll break something. Her, most probably, though at this stage, Jessie is fair game too.

"It won't help," Jessie replies wearily.

"Everything's important," he says, taking hold of her limp, emaciated arm and shaking it. She doesn't say anything, watching Jessie's eyes instead, as they flicker frantically across the room and searching her face. She can read the indecision there, but what is the indecision caused by?

"Wait …" she begins, but it's too late.

"My father …" Jessie whispers.

"Abused you? What?" House urges brusquely, no sign of emotion showing whatsoever. She sits back in the chair, back straight and taut, one hand over her mouth, because somehow she knows that whatever Jessie is about to say will change everything.

For Jessie or her?

"My father's having an affair," the girl says, her face tight. "No one knows … no one knows I know either … but if I get better, he's going to leave us. I know."

The air is thick with regret, fear and disappointment, but as she watches Jessie's face, she sees the tightness of her face suddenly loosen and something fall away. Is it a burden she's lost or a part of herself? As she watches Jessie close her eyes, she feels his hand on her shoulder, like a faint memory of that moment in the chapel so very long ago. She allows him to guide her out of the room, and through the inertia, she feels the shape of the questions and admissions between them, but she knows they won't allow themselves to say it.

Not now.

She closes her eyes and that image of Beth floods her mind once again. _Where did that come from? _

Jessie passes away at midnight. The parents are distraught, of course and the sister stares blankly into space as the father leads the mother into the room. She looks at them silently, devoid of any words of comfort, and tries not to think of the other woman who's waiting for the father. As she stares down at Jessie's empty face before the nurse covers her with a sheet, she remembers the sudden looseness on Jessie's face after her confession. It had been keeping the secret that had held her here, and after she had released it to the world, she had nothing to cling onto anymore. Silently, she resents him for prising the secret from Jessie's weakened fingers.

The sister comes to stand beside her, her grief filling the space where Jessie had been.

"I think she knew," she says quietly. "That Dad was having an affair. She didn't want to stay here any longer."

The terrible irony of the sister's words strikes her, and she lets out a half-choked laugh.

"No," she says, looking away. "She wanted to stay here because of it."

She leaves the room – leaves the sister alone with the nurse, her sister's body and silences so long and heavy that they will follow her for the rest of time.

She gets in her car and drives to the indoor skating rink and sits in the car for a moment, her face numb and her body clenched. As she gets out, she lets the car door slam behind her, not bothering to lock it. The rink isn't crowded or full, and skaters skim over the ice gracefully. She watches as one falls to the ground and listens as the coach calls instructions after another.

None of them are Beth.

"Can I help you?" a voice breaks through her reverie and she turns to see Beth's coach standing by her. _Phoebe,_ she remembers vaguely.

"What days does Beth train?" she asks, her voice hoarse from not crying. The coach looks at her solemnly, her cheerful demeanour melting away.

"She died, honey. She died just after summer."

Somewhere in the half-frozen corner of her brain that's still functioning, she can hear the coach talking – asking if she's that doctor lady who taught Beth the salchows, something about Beth asking for her, something about Beth having – is it cancer? She's not sure, and instead of smiling sadly with the part of her soul that she doesn't have, she backs away.

It's started snowing early in New Jersey, and she's skating feverishly on the half-frozen outdoor rink sometime later, doing cross-spins, backspins, one-foot spins – all the spins she can think of – all the spins Beth loved, and she's dizzy with something akin to loss, but it can't be loss, can it? Can it? Her hair's flying and whipping around her as her skates scrape the surface of the ice, and the temptation to do a salchow is there, but she can't do it – she _won't _do it, now that Beth can't. Her breath comes out in ragged intervals as she spins wildly out of control. Her skates catch on something, and she stumbles, unable to catch herself, sprawling onto the ice. Ignoring the pain, she gets up again and does a backward crossover, holding it and waiting for the right moment to launch into her spin. Just as she is pushing forward in a semicircle, ready to start spinning again, his voice cuts through the cold, cold air.

"Stop it."

She is startled and jerks around, just managing to stay upright – which is good, because she doesn't think he'll let her live it down if she falls now. House is standing there, on the edge of the rink, looking at her, and she finds herself slowly skating towards him, the numbness of her brain starting to thaw. He watches her as she clumps to the edge of the rink and sits in the snow, oblivious to the cold and the wet.

"Why?" she asks.

"Yes, why?" he agrees. "And who and what and when?"

"And how," she reminds him, because she always used to miss 'how' out when she was in primary school, and by the looks of things he probably did too. He lowers himself awkwardly to sit beside her, and they stay like that. Maybe sometime later, she'll lean against him, and maybe he'll let himself put an arm around her.

And maybe sometime later, she'll do a salchow again.

_-end-_

* * *

So tell me: are you satisfied with this ending? Or should I do a sequel/additional chapters/ epilogue? And also if you've been following this story, please do drop me a line, especially if you haven't reviewed before. I'd just like to hear what you all thought of this, and no, I won't torture you with a horrendous arrow again.

Thanks for reading,

s.a.r.d. ine


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